


Drive

by bravelikealady



Series: Ghost of Ambrose [2]
Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: M/M, My feelings are hurt, this is a series now i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 12:40:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16241810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravelikealady/pseuds/bravelikealady
Summary: post Monday Night Raw, October 8th 2018Dean takes off, not knowing who he is or where he is or where he's going.Roman and Seth are static. How do you reach someone who's nowhere?"And I'll be haunting all the livesthat cared for meI died to be the white ghostOf the man that I was meant to be"





	Drive

“Oh shit.”

 

The hand of the speedometer was wavering well beyond the posted limit, well beyond the speed of traffic excuse. He considers slowing down, but he doesn’t.

 

_ Fuck it _ .

 

Dean doesn’t normally rent cars this… functional, but he was in a hurry. He didn’t want to risk the parking lot entanglements of last time. But he’ll have to face them again, at least next week. Unless…

 

_ Unless you leave for good _ .

 

He leaves the middle lane for the left, passing cars only daring to go 70 in the 55. If he hauls ass he might outrun the feeling in his chest, tight and heavy, threatening to sink into the void of nerves his stomach had become. The motor rumbles, growls. He rolls his window half way down, let’s the wind deafen him and dry his eyes.

 

He had shown up again that afternoon, like nothing had happened. Crept into the locker room and sat down. He was wrapping his hands when Roman opened the door. Dropping his bag just at the door, Roman placed the Universal title on top of it, then came to sit by Dean.

 

“Yo,” Dean had said.

 

“Yo,” Roman responded. “I’m glad you’re here… if you wanna be here.”

 

“Mm.”

 

“I… when you’re not here. I feel it. Whether we roll together or not. Whether there’s some battles needs to be won or not. You’re missed. You’re a part of it. And that’s all I’m gon say.”

 

Roman had hit the showers and left Dean with his thoughts then.

 

_ So why are my thoughts still following me? _

 

80mph. 

 

85.

 

90mph.

 

When Seth had shown up hours later, he looked dumbfounded, overwhelmed.

 

“Dean,” he’d almost whispered it.

 

If he wanted to- if he dared- he could recall what came next. Seth walking up to him slowly, reaching out like he’d spook him. Seth’s hand on his chest, his fingertips warm through the thin tank top. He’d found his head hanging, Seth’s hand creeping up to cup his cheek. He’d leaned into it. He’d almost said something, Seth had told him not to. And th-

 

Yeah, he could recall all of it. The way it felt. To be in Seth’s hands, gently, with care. He could

 

But he couldn’t.

 

He burned.

 

He rolled the window back up, turned the radio up as high as it would go. He’d found some generic rock station, some awful thing, playing generic grunt-y songs from five years ago. The stuff he’d grown up on in high school locker rooms and small, airless gyms in a small town. He thought about that town, who he was then. He thought about all the towns he’d run through, first small, then large. The hustle and the bustle. 

 

He had only ever made landing once or twice.

 

But with Seth and with Roman…

 

_ Home _ .

 

Dean saw an exit up ahead, plenty of gas and grabs. He pulled off. 

 

\---

Seth had been squeezing the buttons on the side of his phone for ten minutes or so. Watching the screen flicker, light to dark. Each time he looked at the lock screen, considered the fingerprint read, pulling him, texting, calling, something, anything.

 

“Packed your bag. Wanna do a final sweep?”

 

“Wha,” Seth was surprised to hear Roman’s voice. He’d forgotten he wasn’t alone, “um, no.. I trust you. Thanks, man.”

 

“I got ya. You gon call him?”

 

“Do you think I should,” he stood and slung his bag over his shoulder, then pulled his rolling suitcase behind. He knew Dean would’ve given him shit about it. He wished he were here, busting his balls, flicking him on the back of the neck.

 

“I’d say yes, you know? A few weeks ago, I’d say yes. But now… I don’t know, Uce.”

 

Seth sighed. He was glad he’d be riding with Roman tonight. Roman never fought Seth for driving duties, always let Seth keep hold of the wheel. He liked control, worshipped at the altar of control. 

 

Funny that a man like Dean Ambrose should mean so much to him.

 

He buckled his seat belt and adjusted the mirrors while Roman finished up some conversation with someone just behind their car. His phone glowed and he grabbed at it, his heart beating faster, nearly sweating.

 

_ Dean _ .

 

It wasn’t.

 

Seth set up his music for the ride. Roman got in shortly after.

 

The night seemed to bleed, dark and open. The highway felt small and suffocating somehow. 

 

“I’m gonna try to call him.”

 

“Alright,” Seth turned down the stereo anxiously.

 

He and Roman both had a change of breath as it rang. A pause, then Dean’s voice. Seth couldn’t hear it, but felt the echo, the low gravel was enough to vibrate against the phone. 

 

“Voicemail,” Roman mouthed. 

 

Seth nodded.

 

“Hey man… it’s me. I’m with Seth. Driving. You do what you need. Let us know you’re safe. We give a shit, alright? Even grabbed some Mt Dew’s for the ride for ya.” Roman paused. “Gotta do what you gotta do. I’ll uh… I’ll always understand that. Be safe.”

 

“That was good,” Seth said.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. Do you think uh… think he’ll call back?”

 

“If he doesn’t, that’s just Dean. Doesn’t mean anything.”

 

“Yeah,” Seth felt like crying. “Probably better it was you, checking in, I mean. You know… he trusts you. Always trust you.”

 

“Don’t do that.”

 

“I’m not- I mean… I won’t. Yeah.”

 

“You alright? You need a minute?”

 

“Ah… I’m good. I just wanna drive.”

 

“Alright. I’ll handle this music, boy, getting too emo in here. We got a long night.”

 

\---

 

Dean got out at the gas station and threw a hoodie on over his tank top. He forgot it was autumn. It was nice to breathe it all in, half the crisp coming of winter, half gasoline. Dean had always loved the smell of gasoline.

 

He grabbed a Mt. Dew then headed for the snack aisle. His eyes wandered over Cheez Its and Combos and all kinds of trash. His mind traveled out, somewhere around pretzels.  _ What was I supposed to do tonight?  _

 

It had felt so good. Hounds again. Everything he missed. Everything he missed when his soul ached and his shoulders slumped from the weight of Seth gone in the dark. Everything he missed when he lay in that hospital bed, everything he thought about right before, as they counted backwards, letting sweet anesthesia cloud his body.

 

But in the end, it didn’t matter. He gave and he gave. They saved him. He saved them. Targets on their backs, with or without titles, the pressure, the spotlight… and he still ends up exhausted, war torn, and beaten. He felt… so angry. So fucking angry.

 

So he left. 

 

He left because he didn’t trust himself to stand up and look them in the eye.

 

How do you tell the only people you’re sure care for you that you know it was a little bit your fault? That you know you make it hard to love you, deliberately, the only calculation you’re capable of? How do you say, hey, I know I should’ve told you I needed you, should’ve let you know that for once it was okay to be there for me?

 

How do you tell them that you knew you were dying and that for a moment you didn’t fight it? How do you tell them you don’t know if you’re glad you’re alive?

“Excuse me,” a small voice brought him back into his own body.

 

“Hey,” he greeted the girl, couldn’t be more than ten, at his shoulder.

 

“You’re Dean Ambrose.”

 

“I am.”

 

“Is it okay to get a picture?”

 

“Yeah, let’s do it. What are we doing? Selfie?”

 

“Yes,” she was so nervous. He’d never get used to this.

 

“You got a phone?”

 

“Uh huh.”

 

“What are you doing with a phone? Got a business meeting,” she was less nervous now, giggling. “Alright, come here, let’s do it.”

 

She got her photo, smiled. Whispered excitedly to her mom. As she hit the door, the little bell ring-a-linging the comings and goings of patrons or sketch asses, she turned, “would you tell Roman that I’m really glad he beat Brock?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“And will you tell Seth hi?”

 

“Yeah. I’ll let them know. You didn’t tell me your name.”

 

“It’s Cora.”

 

“Alright. Cora. I’ll remember.”

 

Out of the mouth of babes.

 

Dean was glad Roman had beat Brock Lesnar, too.

 

He’d beat Brock Lesnar once, back when he was invincible, back when he worked 365, worked until they told him to go home. Ran, hiked, boxed in his little bit of free time. His body more than a machine, his body his everything, the reliable vessel, the work ethic made flesh.

 

_ No use thinking about it. _

 

Dean gets back to the car, tosses the bag of snacks into the passenger seat, and goes to queue up tunes that’ll keep him awake.

 

The phone reads:

 

> 1 missed call.
> 
>  
> 
> New Voicemail: That Samoan.

 

He ignores it, sets up some songs, is ready to hit the road. 

 

The phone flickers again.

 

A single text message, its contents shown in the preview.

 

> Message
> 
>  
> 
> **Seth**
> 
> Please.

  
  
  
  



End file.
